


Song On Fire

by LaKoda0518



Series: Where Words Fail, Music Speaks [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 02:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaKoda0518/pseuds/LaKoda0518
Summary: A series of one-shot song-fics that I will be posting every so often. I have an entire list of songs and thoughts on each of them that pertain to our favorite characters and I wanted to share those with you all in time. Be prepared to feel fluffy, angsty, sexy, and even humorous :)





	Song On Fire

A/N: Yay! It’s finally finished! This is the first in a series of song-fics I plan on introducing! I absolutely adore music and lyrics and have always believed that when words fail, music speaks… I do have to say that I do not own the lyrics to “Song On Fire” by Nickelback (Link to song [here](https://youtu.be/NQh5cphzQUw)!) and I do not own the characters used in this story. However, I hope you enjoy it and please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments! xoxo

 

 

 

 

** Song On Fire **

****

 

Silence. Deafening, cold silence was all that was left in life. John Watson sat alone on the floor of the entryway to their flat, clinging to the remaining warmth of the trademark Belstaff coat. It was wrapped around his shoulders, the collar flipped up against his face and there was a new blog entry on the computer screen in front of him. It had taken him days to work up the courage to even set foot in the entryway to 221B without having a panic attack, but he didn’t think he would ever be able to so much as look at the staircase without falling apart. Had it really been a week since… since the incident…? Days, weeks, months – they didn’t matter anymore…. He was alone. All that remained was ‘the Fall’… and nothing mattered anymore. Not without –

 

He shook his head subtly and slowly – he didn’t need to go down that road. The only thing waiting for him at the end of it was the short muzzle of his gun. Instead, he gazed thoughtlessly at his current blog post. It was completely blank and the insertion point blinked slowly, mocking him, laughing at his pain and misery. His therapist said it would help if he could write out what he had seen and how he was coping… his feelings and emotions surrounding the whole ordeal. It was ludicrous, really… he wasn’t ‘coping’… How the hell was he supposed to ‘cope’?  Each time he raised his hands to type, they moved mechanically over the keyboard before he hit the delete key and dropped them back in his lap, once again – lost. Why would anyone care what he felt….? _He_ hadn’t…. If _he_ had cared, John wouldn’t be alone…

 

No… that wasn’t fair. He’d never know how the detective had ever felt about him…

 

He closed his eyes as he attempted to shut off his mind, but he knew deep down that he was fighting a losing battle. The war in his mind was already won with despair and anguish rising victorious. John could feel the swell of anger and sorrow rising in him and he couldn’t hold it back any longer. He slammed the laptop closed and slung it at the wall furiously. With a scream of frustration, he fell over onto his side; the Belstaff wrapped around his body trying and failing to keep his darkest demons at bay. He let pain win; he wasn’t strong enough to keep it out, anymore. His eyes closed tightly as the tears fell without hesitation. They burned and ripped through him, leaving his soul raw and exposed just as they always did. Day after day, hour after hour. This was his new normal. Pain... Fear... Misery… Why would he leave him behind like this…..?

 

 

_The first words that come out_

_And I can see this song will be about you_

_I can't believe that I can breathe without you_

_But all I need to do is carry on_

_The next line I write down_

_And there's a tear that falls between the pages_

_I know that pain's supposed to heal in stages_

_But it depends which one I'm standing on_

_I write lines down, then rip them up_

_Describing love can't be this tough_

Flooded with sorrow, John’s shoulders heaved as he sobbed into the collar of the Belstaff coat, trying to inhale every last trace of what was left of the clever detective’s scent. One word enveloped his entire existence: Love… he had used the word when he reached the A&E with _him…_ with Sherlock. Everything changed at that moment. The once monumental fears he had had before seemed so insignificant as he fell apart and his entire world came crashing down around him. He had been clutching at Sherlock’s chest, one hand threaded through his messy, bloody curls. His entire body had gone into shock and he wasn’t even aware of his surroundings. It was as if he was dying right along with him. He had nuzzled Sherlock’s cheek and pressed his lips to the detective’s in that moment – their first and last kiss; the warmth had faded and his muscles were rigid. He could hear his own words cutting deeper than a knife through his heart as he had stood next to the lifeless body of the only one who had ever mattered. “Please…. Sherlock, please… you can’t be – you can’t do this… I… I love you… Please, don’t do this… I’m sorry I never told you… I-I’m sorry….”

 

‘I love you…’

The words crashed around John in waves of grief mixed with regret and he felt his chest constrict as he cried out in pain. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. He’d waited too late to say what he’d always felt and now he’d have to live with it for the rest of his life. He’d have to live every single day not knowing if the feeling was reciprocated; not knowing what he had truly lost… just a best friend? Or more? How was he supposed to go on like this?

 

His heart ached and the tears began to consume him, now. John hugged Sherlock’s coat closer to his chest, begging for it to keep him sane. He had taken it home from the A&E the night of the incident… Lestrade had brought it to him and draped it over his shoulders as he sat alone in the hallway. Anderson had protested at first, claiming it as evidence, but Lestrade shut him down quickly. John didn’t know how much he needed it until the weight of it surrounded him, bearing down on his shoulders. It had taken hours to convince John to leave the hospital – to go home. But, he couldn’t go _home_. Not without Sherlock.

 

Without John knowing, Lestrade had phoned Molly, instead, who came down to the A&E and brought him home with her. He didn’t remember much of anything from that night except the vague memories of lying in an unfamiliar bed, still wrapped in Sherlock’s coat, and crying until he didn’t have anything left. The sun had risen and fallen without him even leaving the bed the next day. He had cried every last tear he possibly had in his body, but they still seemed to fall.

 

He hadn’t slept that night… every time he closed his eyes, he was flooded with a myriad of images: Sherlock’s brilliant blue eyes that seemed to light up even more when he had a case; Sherlock’s smile – not the emotionless one he used to manipulate others, but the one he saved for John – the one with the purest of intentions that he had first shown to John the night they met when he had left his cane at Angelo’s…. It was all too much to think about then and even more so now. His heart ached with every beat, threatening to tear his chest apart each time he breathed in and out. He would give anything to see that smile one last time…

_I could set this song on fire, send it up in smoke_

_I could throw it in the river and watch it sink in slowly_

_Tie the pages to a plane and send it to the moon_

_Play it for the world, but it won't mean much_

_Unless I sing this song to you_

As the tears continued to fall, John pulled his mobile out of the pocket of the Belstaff. He had several missed calls and unread messages, but he’d answer them when he didn’t feel like eating his gun. He sighed and a text from Mrs. Hudson caught his eye:

 

“Where are you, John? Been looking for ages. Molly is worried sick”

 

A pang of guilt shot through his chest making the pain worse. He struggled to sit up and wipe the tears away, but they were stubborn. He’d just have to let himself cry it all out, again. He sent a short text back – “Home” – and dropped his mobile to the floor. They’d come and find him soon and he’d be fussed over and told how worried they were. He’d feel sick and, later on, he probably really would be. Another side effect of the heartache… he wasn’t keeping food down… As a doctor, he knew it was very serious, but, as a human being, he couldn’t find a reason to care. Perhaps this is how people died of a broken heart…? Lack of sleep, loss of appetite, whatever they did try to eat came back up anyway, constant crying and chest pain. It was torture and at times it made him crave the battlefield, again. Silently, he wished he was back in the dirt with a bullet buried in his shoulder… Maybe, this time, he wouldn’t make it home…. This pain was somehow worse than the wounds of war.  John had never experienced torment like this in his life…

 

“And you invaded Afghanistan”

 

John dropped his head against the wall as the memory of Sherlock’s words hit him like a load of bricks; all of his air blown from his lungs. From day one, Sherlock could make him laugh unlike anyone else in the world. He had a quick wit and a charming laugh that made John’s heart feel ten times lighter. After the first night out with his new flatmate, he had regained his will to live and they created a life together. It had been far from conventional, but John could’ve lived that life forever – he had already planned to. He had dated during his time with Sherlock, yes, but he always came first; no matter what, and John never could quite explain why. He had always made a point to make him priority number one, which his dates had found endearing to begin with. However, in the end they always grew weary of competing with his flatmate… and each and every time, he chose the great Sherlock Holmes and he knew he always would. He had loved him more than anything even then. Now, if only Sherlock had chosen him in the end in return… Was death really more appealing than a life with him?

_I'm dying to show you_

_This could end happily ever after_

_There doesn't ever have to be disaster_

_And all you have to do is sing along_

_I write lines down, then rip them up_

_Impossible describing love_

Cursing himself, quietly, John knew those were unfair thoughts. He may never know why his partner resorted to such measures, but he certainly could never judge – that wasn’t the way to be. He knew Moriarty had been found dead on that rooftop so what had really happened that Sherlock couldn’t tell him? Refused to tell him? Why had it been so private? Just more questions he would never have the answers to.

 

So many things didn’t make sense or add up and a part of John longed for the truth while the other part was terrified of it. As it stood now, though, everything terrified him… He had no real idea how life was supposed to work without Sherlock. How could he be John Watson without him? Sherlock’s voice invaded his fragile thoughts once again:

 

 “I’d be lost without my blogger,”.

 

Now, he wondered what the man had really meant by that statement, but, deep down, he felt like he already knew… They were a team… a package deal… They were a couple, just like everyone had said they were for years. The realization tore at John’s heart and soul and he hated himself for it. If only he’d seen it sooner and not denied it for so long… Maybe, if he’d just given in to the accusations during their first few months together, all of this could’ve been avoided… Maybe, he’d still be here with him.

 

John could feel the tears beginning to subside, realizing there was nothing left for his body to give at the time. His shoulder was terribly sore and his chest ached as if he had a few broken ribs. Somehow, his tears always brought him more pain than he could handle. For God’s sake, even his limp was starting to return, launching a surprise assault on his body at random times. He was reverting back to his old self; the John Watson that had never known Sherlock Holmes existed…. And he was scared to death. It felt as though his body was betraying him by trying to erase everything it possibly could about his flatmate.

 

 

_I could set this song on fire, send it up in smoke_

_I could throw it in the river and watch it sink in slowly_

_Tie the pages to a plane and send it to the moon_

_Play it for the world, but it won't mean much_

_Unless I sing this song to you_

****

_I could set this song on fire_

_Sing this song to you_

_I could set this song on fire_

John heard the key turning in the lock on the door and braced himself against the wall to try to stand. His knees were weak and his breathing was still shallow, but he tried to appear normal

– well, as normal as possible. Molly entered the entryway alone, surprisingly, and stopped dead in her tracks as her eyes fell on John; taking in the sight of him clutching the wall for support, still wearing the Belstaff. Her look of worry turned to pity instantly. John hated this look with every fiber of his being. He was a soldier! He didn’t need anyone’s pity.

 

She stared at him cautiously for a moment, and John realized he didn’t have anything to say. What could he say? He hadn’t spoken much since the incident and sometimes he wondered if he still remembered how. He settled for a short nod of acknowledgement and tried to force his face into anything closely resembling a smile. It seems he’d forgotten how to do that as well.

 

A silent tear rolled down Molly’s cheek as she extended a hand out to him, which he reluctantly took. He hated to see her so sad and feeling sorry for him, but he didn’t know how to cheer himself up, much less anyone else. She tugged at his hand and pulled him into an embrace as he did his best to reciprocate. It was awkward at first – he’d never been in such close proximity to Molly before now – but, the tension in his shoulders soon began to relax.

 

She stroked his back silently though the thick fabric of Sherlock’s coat and placed a comforting kiss to the side of his head. “I know you’re hurting…. And we all wish we could take it away – help you carry the weight of it all. It’s not easy and I don’t know if it ever will be… he always thought no one cared, but if he could see us all right now he’d be surprised…” her voice was soft in his ear as she continued to caress his back. “I miss him, too, John… I feel the same way you do. There wasn’t anyone like him in the world and there never will be. He truly was a good friend; unique, even genuinely caring on occasion, and one of the best men any of us ever knew –“

 

John snapped back from her and stared at her, tension building in his face as he clenched his jaw. He knew she had only been trying to comfort him, but he couldn’t listen to it any longer. Words were crowding his mind and before he knew it he was practically shouting at her.

 

“No, not – he wasn’t a good friend, he was a terrible friend!” he began, all of the pent up anger and guilt and sorrow spilling out. “He drove me insane, nearly got me killed on numerous occasions, picked fights with criminals and drug me down with him. He kept me up at all hours of the night, sometimes even days on end. He ruined every date I ever had and made it impossible for me to be with anyone else. And the worst thing he ever did was make me love him for all of it! So, no, Molly you don’t know how I feel. I know you fancied him, but he would’ve chewed you up and spit you out! But, me? Oh, he put me through the ringer and I always trudged right along behind him! Loyal John Watson! Faithful dog tagging along at the heels of the great Sherlock Holmes! I deserted my dates to chase his handsome arse all over London at every hour of the day and night! I took cab after cab to crime scenes he deemed not worthy enough for his presence! I made sure he ate, I made sure he slept, and I made sure he stayed clean! No drugs, no cigarettes, not even excessive drinking!”

 

John was shaking all over, now, and Molly had backed away against the opposite wall. Her eyes were wide, but she wasn’t afraid. She seemed surprised and heartbroken for him all at the same time and he didn’t know if he hated that even more than the pity or not.

 

“Sherlock Holmes was a great man, that’s true, but no one ever knew just what he did to me! No one ever knew how I really felt about him and, to be honest, I didn’t know either until it was too late!” The tears were back, stinging his eyes and burning his skin as they trickled down his face. How could he still have any left to cry?

 

“Do you know he kissed me once?” John said after a moment. He stared Molly down and a soft half-smile played at her lips, though her eyes were full of sadness. “Yeah, about a week before he… before _it_ happened. The blithering idiot came over to my chair and knelt down beside me as he closed my laptop. I thought something was really wrong, but he leaned up and pressed his lips to mine and everything in me felt like it was on fire. I kissed him back and was completely in shock! When he finally pulled back, he looked at me with his judgmental eyes and studied me like a lab rat only to tell me my pulse was too quick and I had too much of an emotional response for him to conduct his EXPERIMENT correctly! I could’ve bloody well killed him after that! We never spoke of it again, but I sure as hell have never forgotten it! That’s how he was – he never realized that I would’ve given him everything I ever had and more. I already did, for Christ’s sake! My entire life revolved around him and now what have I got to show for it?! What’s left now?!”

 

As the words left his lips, John crumpled to the floor again and Molly rushed to kneel beside him. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight, whispering words of comfort into his greying blonde hair. His entire body shook with his sobs; his heart was broken and he didn’t know if it would ever be able to heal.

_Light this old guitar on fire, I'd still hear the notes_

_Drown the melody in water, I'd still hear its ghost_

_Sing it with somebody else, but we'd be out of tune_

_Play it for the world, but it won't mean much_

_I could set this song on fire, send it up in smoke_

_I could throw it in the river and watch it sink in slowly_

_Tie the pages to a plane and send it to the moon_

_Play it for the world, but it won't mean much_

_Unless I sing this song to you_

_I could set this song on fire_

_Unless I sing this song to you_

Sherlock stared at the computer screen in front on him; his elbows propped on the table and his hands steepled below his chin in his familiar thoughtful pose. He was sitting in a dimly lit room somewhere underground in Serbia, wearing only a thin white T-shirt and a pair of black trousers. His soft curls were matted in places and he hadn’t shaved in several days. Tears were brimming in his ocean-blue gaze, but his jaw was clenched tight, keeping them at bay. As he watched John’s frame shake in agony in Molly’s arms, he turned his attention to a scratch in the wooden table. Yes, it was true that he had kissed John before faking his death. He hadn’t wanted to leave him without knowing for sure what it felt like and it had been something the detective had never known he needed… He cleared his throat and glanced up at Mycroft who sat across from him, judgment evident on his pale face as he stared.

 

“What are you looking at? Why are you showing me this?” Sherlock spat, cold and angrily. His brother blinked in surprise and reached out to turn the computer screen toward himself. He ran the video back and stopped it again, this time zooming in on John’s face before turning it back to Sherlock. It was really unfair to be angry at Mycroft, especially since he had helped him orchestrate this whole ordeal in the first place.

 

The detective stared at the screen, once again, his eyes fixed on John’s gaunt face and, before he could stop himself, he was deducing the image before him: his eyes were swollen from crying, the stubble on his chin and cheeks showed that he hadn’t shaved in days and, from the looks of it, he had forgotten how to comb his hair; he also hadn’t showered since the memorial. Although his body was buried in the thick coat, the hollow lines of his face confirmed he was at least eight pounds thinner. He wasn’t eating…

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed hard as he tried to shut off his thoughts. “As I said, Mycroft, why are you showing me this?” his question was quiet, but he spoke clearly. In truth, he didn’t want to think about the pain John felt. He didn’t want to think about hurting the one he lov – no, he wasn’t going to allow himself to cross that line. Not yet. He had a serious job to do if he was going to keep John safe and he couldn’t let himself get sidetracked. He tucked the emotion away in his Mind Palace and opened his eyes, looking at his brother coolly.

 

Mycroft glanced down at the floor and tapped the tip of his umbrella against his shoe as he thought his answer over. “Sherlock,” he stated without looking at the detective, “I wanted to show you this because I believe it is imperative for you to understand the monumental scale of the consequences of your current situation. You have made a choice, one that I neither agree nor disagree with, and you need to come to terms with the realities that are awaiting your friends and acquaintances. John Watson, in particular, is experiencing severe signs of trauma induced grief that is sending him into a very dangerous state of depression, dear brother. One that I cannot guarantee he will be able to come back from,”. The older Holmes looked up at his younger brother, his face rigid and emotionless.

 

‘A Holmes family trait,’ Sherlock thought to himself with a huff. He looked at the image of John’s tortured face one last time as he tried to memorize what he saw. He had never known John felt the way he did about him and he made a mental note to do everything he could to resolve that issue once he made his return. He didn’t want to hurt John, but he didn’t have a choice if it meant saving his life. He had been attracted to his flatmate and was amazed that the feeling had actually been reciprocated. He never thought that he would be worthy of Dr. John Watson’s affections since he was more machine than human by way of choice, and it tugged gently at the edges of his heart. He stole a quick glance back at his brother before he traced a finger over John’s cheek on the computer screen then let his hand fall to his side.

 

“Thank you, Mycroft. I have a lot of work to do and it seems I need to be getting on with it in a hurry as I appear to have some unfinished business back home that requires my attention,” he said with a nod as he held out his hand for his brother to shake.

 

Mycroft rose to his feet and slipped around the edge of the table, taking Sherlock’s hand to seal their handshake. “Indeed, I shall say ‘you’re welcome’, dear brother. Do try not to take too long. I will do my best to keep track of your army doctor, but I won’t intervene in any of his behaviors unless it becomes an incident of dire necessity,”.

 

Sherlock nodded in understanding as he walked to the door and wrenched it open. He slipped out quietly and quickly, leaving Mycroft alone with the laptop.

 

_I could set this, I could set this_

_I want to sing this song to you_

_I could set this song on fire_

_Sing this song to you_

_I could set this, I could set this_


End file.
